


Call us Scout and Dill

by kindofspecificstore



Series: Not Your Average High School AU [3]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Coming Out, Multi, One Shot Collection, Queer Feelings, Rachel and Patrick are Gay Best Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27020299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindofspecificstore/pseuds/kindofspecificstore
Summary: Patrick can read between the lines. He knows his parents are still confused as to why they broke up. No one grows up with a next door neighbour turned best friend turned high school sweetheart to go back to being best friends. He cycles through every last time they’ve mentioned Rachel since school started a couple weeks ago, the tight sensation in his chest anchoring him down deeper into the mattress, eyes wide open in the darkness of his room.(Or, snapshots of Patrick and Rachel at outdoor school. A prequel to Crossing Frozen Territory)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer & Rachel, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Rachel (Schitt's Creek)/Twyla Sands
Series: Not Your Average High School AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853398
Comments: 81
Kudos: 41





	1. Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall (Ronnie)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back to Schitt's Creek Outdoor School! 
> 
> If you haven't been by before, these fics go well with a nice cup of tea and a view of the outdoors. I got to the end of writing Crossing Frozen Territory, realized I wrote almost every character as queer, and the kids and their teachers never talked about it. So this is me solving that. This instalment focuses on Patrick and Rachel's relationship. If you're following along in the Outdoor School AU, the one shots take place before More at One With Nature (part 1), and take us right up to Crossing Frozen Territory (part 2). It might help to read those first, but choose your own adventure. 
> 
> Much gratitude to [fishyspots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishyspots/pseuds/fishyspots) for beta-ing the heck out of this world, and loving it as much I do.
> 
> Work is complete and will be updated regularly. Chapter 1 title is from You've Got a Friend by Carole King

The sun has long gone down past the tree line as the soft sounds of _Tapestry_ crackle from the record player. Ray’s home is only a stone’s-throw away from Schitt’s Creek Outdoor Education Centre, and it has become a cozy and welcoming place for more drawn-out staff meetings. Now that Roland’s gone, mumbling something about _Devil Wears Prada_ that neither of them need or want to know about, Ronnie and Ray can finally start a second, more serious round of drinks.

“I’m so glad we got that done,” Ray smiles tiredly. He passes Ronnie her beer as he takes a seat opposite her at the dining room table. “I can’t wait to reflect on our new decision making process when I record the next episode of _Teaching isn’t all Sunshine and Ray-nbows._ ” 

It’s certainly been a time, Ronnie can agree. Assigning tents and canoe groups is never easy, and she and Roland always end up in some sort of argument. The parents are often on their cases about having mixed gendered tents, which Ronnie couldn’t care less about. She takes her sweet time to nurse her beer before commiserating with Ray.

“Y’know, you’re lucky the kids haven’t found that podcast yet. And it’s a good thing you remembered to change everyone’s names this time around.”

“Of course they’d have a much easier time finding it if the school board would let me advertise on their website,” Ray raises his palms up in defence. “But I digress. How are we feeling about this year’s canoe trip?” Ray smiles excitedly, hands gripping the edge of the table. 

Ronnie leans back in her chair, going through her mental rolodex of students. Since landing this gig seven years ago, she’s gotten pretty good at clocking kids within the first couple weeks, figuring out what makes them tick. Outdoor school is a unique circumstance she never takes for granted. Seeing as she spends whole days with the same group of tenth graders for an entire semester, she often ends up knowing the kids better than their parents by the time the semester comes to a close. She rubs a hand over her chin, in deep thought.

“The new kid, David. This is a real adjustment for him.”

Ray takes a deep inhale, eyes widening with anticipation. 

This is perhaps her favourite part of the first week of school.

Ray leans forward, conspiratorially. “Oh, he’s definitely one of ours,” he winks, which gets a small chuckle out of Ronnie. “But I’m not worried—you should see the pieces he pulled off in art class this week. Has an _excellent_ hand on the felt tipped pen,” Ray gushes.

Ronnie takes another sip of her beer. “Even with the barriers he’s presenting with, I think he’s going to pull through. That’s why I fought for putting him in a tent with Stevie. He doesn’t want to be babied.” 

Ray nods in agreement. Anxiety is pretty run-of-the-mill for Outdoor School, nothing they haven’t experienced before. But the Rose kid’s whole “city boy” vibe is a challenge he’ll have to face on trip. She thinks he’s up for it—she _knows_ he’s up for it. She slides her forearms on the table, turning her attention back to Ray’s game. It’s a silly back-and-forth, a fun conversation between the two of them at the beginning of the semester. Any eavesdropper might consider it gossip, but it’s a responsibility they both take very seriously. They’ve had their fair share of one-on-one chats with students enough to know what outdoor school can hold for those who are starting to learn they’re different.

Ray’s eyes are glinting. This could almost be a face-off. “Miguel,” he starts.

She presses her lips together and squints. “Definitely something happening with him and Ted.”

“Interesting,” Ray nods. “David.”

“We already went over this.” Ronnie rolls her eyes and decides to switch gears. “Rachel.”

Now it’s Ray’s turn to lean back in his chair. “You know, I hadn’t considered that.”

She smirks. They’ll see how the semester goes. It’s not like they keep a wager or anything of the sort. That’s not what it’s about. After all, some kids wait much longer to come out. Outdoor School just happens to produce a tight-knit community, a supportive microcosm that sends them back to the public school as braver versions of themselves. Of course, sometimes they’re dead wrong, and that is also perfectly okay. Sometimes, there are kids that surprise them.

Ray is still absorbing Ronnie’s suggestion, when Charles steps into the adjoining kitchen. “Still at it, you two?” He chuckles, taking a small mountain covered in a red-checkered tea towel off the stove. She watches Ray break out of his consternation to smile back at his husband, who has conveniently decided to uncover his fresh apple pie. This has also transformed into tradition: recreations from _The Great Canadian Baking Show_ to accompany their every staff meeting.

Ray looks back to Ronnie while Charles cuts into the pie and takes the ice cream out of the freezer. “But are you sure? I have it on good authority from Elmdale High’s English department that Rachel is dating Patrick Brewer.”

“The kid who thought he’d tell me how to use an excel sheet on the first day of school?” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think they’re an item. Even so, they could still be dating.” She shrugs and tries to finish off her beer before Charles brings the apple pie over. 

Ray concedes, eyeing the steaming plate in front of him. “Oh, this looks marvellous.” He grins and picks up his fork. Charles and Ronnie chuckle, tucking in to their own slices of pie. Ronnie revels in the notes of cinnamon and maple syrup amidst the perfectly flaky crust- Charles is a true wizard when it comes to baking. Hopefully he’ll be making sandwiches again for this semester’s canoe trip—there's never been a better sourdough than his. 

The silent enjoyment and clattering of forks is of course lifted by Ray, who hasn’t forgotten about the topic at hand. “So both David and Miguel are some of my stronger art students. I can keep an eye out for them. Also, David stayed behind the other day to talk to me about _The Picture of Dorian Grey_ into the lunch period, so I’m pretty certain he already trusts me.”

Ronnie’s dangles her fork in the air, a perfect slice of baked apple speared onto it. “Pretty sure he was just avoiding being roped into capture the flag again, but whatever you say.” Charles puts a hand over his heart. He is constantly endeared by their anecdotes, especially when the kids display relatable qualities. Ronnie smirks, “and in that case, I’ll have my eyes on Rachel.”

Ray smiles, putting down his fork. They shake on it. 

“This feels like an episode of Degrassi,” Charles mutters to himself, smiling. 

Ray reaches across the table and pats his hand. “It’s what you signed up for, honey.”

The three of them share smiles across the dining room table. This semester is going to be a good one—Ronnie can feel it.


	2. Slow Start for a Little Boy (Patrick)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Hard Heart by Samson Wrote (one day I'll stop tweaking the outdoor school playlist and actually share it)

“I just don’t think she likes me,” Patrick groans, pulling his fingers through his curls. It’s late, and he can’t decide whether he should pack for trip or keep working on his paper. Technically speaking, both of these tasks should already be completed so he can still go to tomorrow’s hockey tournament. But getting an extension on his English homework has only prolonged his inability to write. Which is how he now finds himself, desk chair exactly in the middle of his desk and the duffel bag that sits on his bed, using Rachel as a distraction and sounding board. 

He can hear the low chuckle of her voice over the phone. “It doesn’t matter if Ronnie likes you. The problem right now is that you haven’t finished reading  _ To Kill A Mockingbird.” _

If Rachel were here in his bedroom, Patrick would probably roll his eyes at her. She’d probably laugh and chuck a pillow in his face. (Then he’d probably kiss her.) (But that part of their relationship has sort of changed.) He groans again, smothering his face in the folds of his worn paperback. Patrick struggles with reading on a regular basis, and the low yellow lighting of his desk lamp just makes him want to go to sleep. It’s practically 11:30. He has to be up and on the rink in less than twelve hours.

“But what if I don’t  _ want _ to write a character analysis?” He all but whines, gently tossing the book onto his duffel bag. He really shouldn’t be doing this— he knows it’s late and he shouldn’t be calling Rachel every time he feels inadequate about an English class assignment. Ray has offered for him to come in for help during lunch hour, but he feels guilty taking up his time. (That and he’d miss out on tree climbing and capture the flag.) But there’s also something about Ray that he finds intimidating, something he feels he doesn’t have the right words for just yet.

Rachel pays him no mind, reading over the passage again for him. It’s an unspoken agreement they’ve had since middle school; she helps him with reading, while Patrick helps her with the whole numbers thing.

_ “Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. “Scout yonder’s been readin' ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look right puny for goin’ on seven.” _

“Rach, I told you you didn’t have to read in a southern accent.”

She disregards his chiding. “I feel like we’re a lot like them, y’know?” It’s too late at night for Patrick to be able to engage with the depths of Rachel’s ability to spit out literary analysis, so he chooses to give her the space to continue on her tangent. “A tomboy in overalls, and her sensitive little friend?” she hints.

“Hey!” He tries to keep his voice to a whisper. “My growth spurt came late and you know it.”

Rachel chuckles. “I read that Harper Lee based them on her childhood friendship with Truman Capote. Or maybe Ray said that? Do you remember if Ray said that?”

Patrick is drawing a blank. He hardly remembers what Ray says half the time in class, let alone some historical anecdote. He gets what she’s getting at, though…Or at least he  _ thinks _ he does. 

Before he can ask for clarification, Rachel chooses to change the subject. “You remember when David drew Scout and Dill on the first day of school?”

Patrick tries to roll his eyes, but ends up blushing instead. “I think we’re getting off topic here.”

“We’re still talking about the book,” Rachel teases. “Unless you’d like to chat about something else?” She lets her questions hang in the air, like an invitation. Though they’re not on FaceTime, Patrick can partially picture her lying on her bed, keeping her eyebrows raised while she blinks back at him.

“Okay fine,” he brings his voice down to a whisper. “Of course I remember David’s drawing." 

A girl in overalls. A boy with soft features and loud eyes. Their hands twisting together into vines. Patrick had sat on that footbridge, watching delicate silver-ringed hands draw dozens of tiny leaves.  _ David’s hands.  _ And just like that, his mouth has gone dry.

“You still there, PB?” Rachel snickers from the other end of the line.

“Will you just—“

Patrick’s whisper yelling is interrupted by the soft swinging of his bedroom door. Clint looms in the doorway, a knowing look in his eye. “Saw you had your light on.”

Patrick is frozen. He opens his mouth, eyes trying to find his book and the pile of unfinished packing to explain himself. “Rachel was, um” he tries to gesture to the phone that’s somehow still pressed against his ear. 

But his father doesn’t reprimand him. Instead, his face softens as he leans against the door frame. “I didn’t know you two were still talking. Good for you, son. Y’know I miss having her around.”

He watches his Dad smile sympathetically back at him, and Patrick instantly realizes what he’s getting at.  _ Still talking.  _ Of course they’re still talking after they broke up. Patrick’s gaze falls to the creme carpet and his grey wool socks, embarrassed. If only he could tell his dad just exactly why it didn’t feel right.

“Don’t stay up too late, okay?” His Dad whispers. “Big game tomorrow.” And then he hears the subtle click of the door.

“Patrick?” Rachel’s voice calls from somewhere far away. (Technically it  _ is  _ far away, since Rachel’s dad left and her mom had moved them to the other side of town.) (Practically Elm Grove territory.) He looks down into his lap and realizes his phone is on the verge of slipping through his fingers. 

“Yup?” He places it back against his ear, running his other hand through his hair. 

There’s the smallest of pauses before Rachel starts up again. “You haven’t told them yet, have you?”

Patrick can feel himself unconsciously squirm in his seat. 

“Not that—“ Rachel continues,”You don’t have to. Sorry, I didn’t want to put more pressure on you. I didn’t mean—“

Patrick slumps in his chair, feeling that heavy rock in his chest drag him down. “No,” he simplifies for her, tired and defeated. “Believe me, I want to, but… It’s not easy.”

“I know.” Rachel replies in a small voice. He doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s smiling sadly back at him. 

“Yeah, but you actually did it!” He counters, still trying to keep his voice to a low whisper. He can’t risk another interruption from a parent. 

Rachel groans. “During a screaming match with my mom. Not my proudest moment.” 

There’s a collective sigh between the two of them, followed by a silence that’s not entirely uncomfortable. At this point, it’s practically become routine, a ritual to remind the both of them that someone will always be listening on the other end of the line. He wishes they could be in his backyard treehouse together, wrapped up in sleeping bags like the summers in between elementary school years. 

When they sign off (or rather, Rachel makes them so Patrick can get some amount of sleep), Patrick is forced to address the wool sweaters and cargo shorts that should be all rolled up in his duffel by now. He decides packing will be tomorrow’s problem. (He  _ knows _ he has everything on the list—he’s been on a canoe trip dozens of times. He just has to shove everything into the damn bag.) He heaves everything into a neat-ish pile beside his bed,  _ To Kill A Mockingbird _ still sitting right on top, mocking him. 

But Patrick can’t sleep. Sure, it might have something to do with the dread of knowing he won’t have any free time left to spare tomorrow. It might also have something to do with the knowing taunt in Rachel’s voice when a certain someone's name comes up. But all his brain can do is replay his father’s words in his head.  _ I didn’t know you two were still talking. Good for you, son. Y’know I miss having her around.  _ Patrick can read between the lines. He knows his parents are still confused as to why they broke up. No one grows up with a next door neighbour turned best friend turned high school sweetheart to go  _ back  _ to being best friends. He cycles through every last time they’ve mentioned Rachel since school started a couple weeks ago, the tight sensation in his chest anchoring him down deeper into the mattress, eyes wide open in the darkness of his room. 

He stares up at the blurry glow-in-the-dark stars tacked onto his ceiling, willing himself to be transported to forty-eight hours from now, when he’ll get to be under a blanket of real stars again. For a moment, he lets himself imagine what it would be like to have David lying next to him, looking up at the constellations together. If only he were brave enough to have such a thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're reading things in order, More At One with Nature (part 1) starts after this chapter


	3. Shed the Leaves (Rachel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're now post-canoe trip (More at One with Nature) and heading for Crossing Frozen Territory
> 
> Chapter title comes from Solid and Strong by Kimya Dawson. Do yourself a favour and listen to this song while taking a walk through the park. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for continuing to read this universe and sharing all your lovely thoughts.

They sit under the big tree in the main field, Twyla working on a scarf—deep purple with splotches and flecks of lavender—while Rachel sketches with her watercolour pencils. The tree leaves gently shake in the breeze, the bright orange matching the carrot-ginger soup Twyla made for the both of them. It’s the second time Rachel has forgotten her lunch this week, and somehow Twyla is already prepared for it. Rachel is eternally grateful—It’s been a rough couple of days, and Twyla is happy to sit with her in silence or help fill it with stories. 

“So who’s this one for?” Rachel asks, not looking up from her sketchbook. If she looks up, she’ll no doubt notice Twyla’s eyes in the afternoon sun, and sitting side-by-side already drives her wild enough. Besides, she doesn’t have to look up to feel Twyla smiling back at her. 

“I noticed you got cold easily while we were on trip,” Twyla explains matter of factly, “So I thought you deserved a scarf.”

_ Now _ she has a reason to look up. “Wait, that’s for me?”

She stares at the humble ball of wool being twisted in Twyla’s hands, listening to the soft clicking of the bamboo needles. There’s at least ten inches on it, even though Twyla just started it on the bus yesterday. Even at the rate Twyla can knit one and purl two, it will still take up a lot of her time.

“Of course,” Twyla smiles and bobs her head, briefly catching Rachel’s eye. Then she stops abruptly. “Sorry, did you not like the colour? I know I should’ve asked first, but I thought of you when I saw it at the yarn store, and I know you already have a green toque- ”

“Twy, I wore that on trip once after giving up on my french braids.” Rachel watches Twyla bite her lip as she finishes off a row. Instead of picking up a new one, she starts to play nervously with the ball of yarn, not looking Rachel in the eye. 

_ Do it. You can do it. _

Rachel reaches out and squeezes Twyla’s knee. A rush of energy flies up to her elbow.  _ Goddammit.  _

“I love the colour,” she manages to whisper, soft and warm.

Twyla breaks into a bright and sunny smile. “I’m glad.” She doesn’t take her sparkling eyes off Rachel as she grabs her mason jar and takes another mouthful of soup. 

It’s been like this for… ages? Last year doesn’t count. Last year was Rachel trying to turn a truth or dare kiss with Patrick into something they both thought they wanted, convincing each other that’s what long time boy/girl friendships turned into. Last year was holding hands with Patrick on top of their desks in math class while he helped her with equations and she would stare at the back of sandy brown waves. She could’ve easily tapped Twyla on the shoulder and asked for help (though she never did) instead of Patrick scraping his chair over from the other side of the room. But Rachel never wanted to be an inconvenience. 

But things were different now. Since the second week of school, Patrick had been taken by black sweaters and fine line sketches, having the guts to do what Rachel couldn’t.

_ “David kissed me,” _ he had whispered to her during one of the hikes on canoe trip. She smacked his arm in shock before he asked where she was at with Twyla.

_ “Nowhere,”  _ was the proper answer.

She couldn’t do it the summer before school started, after she and Patrick had come out to each other and started spotting Twyla at Cafe Tropical. She couldn’t do it on trip- even when Stevie switched out of their canoe and paddled back with Jake. She couldn’t do it on the bus ride home, and she couldn’t do it now. 

Rachel didn’t want to bother Twyla or make her uncomfortable. Besides, now that Patrick had David were together, they could galavant off to God-knows-where in the forest during lunch hours, leaving Rachel to get to know Twyla better. (Slowly.) (As if being in the same canoe  _ and _ tent on trip hadn’t already done enough.) She just needed to stick it out a  _ little _ longer.

She watches Twy expertly continue knitting, seeming to be in some sort of deeply concentrated trance. She’s all spindly fingers and gold rings, moving in muscle memory. 

“I can give you money for the yarn.”

Twyla places her hand on top of Rachel’s and squeezes, a momentary pause from her knitting reverie. “Don’t worry, it’s my gift to you.” 

Rachel hopes that the chill of the autumn air is hiding the blush in her cheeks, but she looks down and realizes her hand never left Twyla’s knee. The same hand that is now being held by Twyla’s.

She’s done for.

“Rachel!” a voice calls out from down the field, interrupting the moment. (Were they having a moment?)  _ Shit _ . Ronnie walks towards the tree, one hand in her pocket and the other holding her trademark coffee mug (World’s #1 Dad). 

Rachel pulls her hand quickly off of Twyla, as if she accidentally touched a campfire stove. “Sorry, I forgot Ronnie wanted to talk to me at lunch.”

Twyla looks back at her with a small smile amidst a face of worry. “Of course,” she mumbles back, quickly stuffing her knitting into the cloth bag at her feet. Twyla nimbly hops up on her feet as Ronnie approaches, announcing she’s going to check on the chicken coop (Twyla is practically a chicken whisperer.) as Ronnie arrives at their spot under the tree.

Rachel stands up slowly, buying time by brushing the imaginary stray grass off her cuffed jeans. Ronnie had accosted her at the end of morning circle, asking if she had an absence note for yesterday, only to whisper  _ “we can talk during lunch” _ when Rachel’s eyes started to brim with tears. She now stood before Rachel, and though her “take no bullshit” face is somewhat menacing, her eyes are kind. Like she wants to believe Rachel has a good reason for a) being absent, and b) not having a note from a parent.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” Ronnie suggests, to her surprise.

Rachel smiles gratefully and nods, allowing Ronnie to lead them down the path and towards the footbridge. 

“So what happened, girly? You’re not usually one to skip town without notice.” 

Rachel stares at the path in front of them, letting out a shaky breath. She silently wishes to be transported two minutes into the past, when she and Twyla were accidentally-maybe on purpose holding hands. 

She tells Ronnie about the call yesterday morning while they were getting on the bus. How her brother Parker had a meltdown at school before his support worker got there. How she ran across the street to Elmdale elementary to try and calm him down. How the school wasn’t able to reach their mom at work. 

Ronnie nods, listening intently as they arrive at the edge of the creek. “That’s a lot to handle for someone your age.” 

Rachel shrugs, leaning over the railing of the bridge to stare into the trickling grey of the water. “I’m used to it. He just had a bad day.” She  _ is _ used to it, but it doesn’t explain her missing absence note. “But I’m sorry I didn’t bring a note. My mom had the early shift again and I didn’t think to—and she couldn’t drive me back after I got home yesterday so I just—” She buries her face in her hands, wishing the shallow water would swallow her whole. Ronnie doesn’t need to see her like this. 

She feels a firm hand on her shoulder. “That’s a lot of responsibility for one person,” Rachel hears Ronnie say. She looks up to see Ronnie reaching into the pocket of her Patagonia vest. She pulls out a small package of tissues to hand over to Rachel.

She takes them from her, nodding in agreement while she tries to mop up her disaster of a face. (It’s probably  _ so _ red by now.)

“I don’t need a note from a parent,” Ronnie continues, “but if I called your mother tonight, she’d be able to back you up on this one?”

She would. Rachel is positive.

“I’ll keep this between us and just tell Ray and Roland you have a lot on your plate,” Ronnie winks and takes a sip of her coffee. She gestures back towards the main field, mumbling something about Roland calling everyone in soon. 

They walk back together towards the main cabin in silence. Ronnie needs to head to the equipment shed to finish tuning the last bike before their afternoon trail ride. 

Before they part ways, Ronnie turns to her and says, “Y’know, my wife made me three scarves before she asked me out,” with a knowing smirk. Rachel just buffers, letting her teacher’s statement hang in the air. Ronnie takes another sip of her coffee then saunters towards the equipment shed. 

Rachel is left alone in the main field, feeling herself smile as she watches Ronnie go. 

“You okay, Rach?” calls a voice from behind her. She turns on her heels, startled to find an expectant Patrick and David, who have magically emerged from the forest holding hands. (As David would say, _ ew. _ )

“All good,” she quips back. (She sounds almost like a robot.) David squints while Patrick cocks his head. “Y’know, I should really talk to Ronnie more often.”


	4. Stung with Senseless Hope (Patrick)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Nowhere & Everywhere by Samson Wrote

“I swear, it was like I was living in an alternate dimension,” Rachel claims as they all climb into her green volkswagen. There’s a crispness to the air, but the melting snow banks along the parking lot are hinting at the incoming spring. It’s a gorgeous afternoon with only a few wisps of clouds, and sadly Patrick had to spend most of it  inside.

Stevie snickers from the seat beside him. “Seeing a teacher at the grocery store is hardly something from an alternate dimension.”

Patrick silently shakes with laughter, eyes glinting at Rachel in the rear-view mirror. This has become their new after school routine. After coming back to Elmdale High for the winter semester, classes are nowhere near as fun, and they don’t see each other nearly as much as they did at outdoor school. Every day once the final bell rings, the five of them convene in the parking lot for the drive home together.

“Sorry I’m late!” Twyla apologizes as she climbs into the passenger seat. (If anything, she’s early.) Patrick watches her lean over to peck Rachel on the lips while she fastens her seatbelt. They’re the cutest—Patrick is happy to admit that. It only took a lot of loud yelling with his eyes, and him and David “accidentally getting lost” on the bike trail for the two of them to  _ finally _ talk it out a few months ago. Patrick is more than willing to give up the passenger seat for Twyla now, though sitting in between David and Stevie sometimes means accidentally coming into a crossfire. (He’d sit on the outside to let the two of them bicker, but then David wouldn’t have enough leg room.)

Rachel cranks her Kimya Dawson playlist as they pull out of the parking lot. Twyla points to the front of the school where the telltale yellow bus empties out senior students clad in wool sweaters and bandanas. Their snowshoe trip has probably come and gone, and given the change in season they’re probably onto tree tapping and sap harvesting. (Lucky ducks.)

“Look!” Twyla points, “That’ll be us in two years!” she almost squeals. 

Patrick feels the hand he’s holding in his left go still. _ David.  _ He squeezes back, and gives him a tiny smile.

_ Let’s hope so.  _ Patrick says with his eyes.

_ Maybe.  _ David mouths back to him. 

The uncertainty of the word is blanketed by the hopeful glint in David’s eye, and the smile peeking out at the corner of his mouth. Neither of them know how long David is actually going to stay. He specifically came for the art program at outdoor school, but he seemed to love the Greater Elms enough to stick around once the semester came to a close. (Patrick likes to think  _ he _ had something to do with that decision.) God knows David’s parents didn’t pay much attention to where he was. 

“All I’m saying is,” Rachel picks up from where she left off, “it was really cool to see her and her wife in the grocery store of all places.” Then her voice goes a little quiet. “As if it was the most normal thing in the world. Y’know?”

Patrick takes a moment to absorb the weight of her words.  _ Normal. _ It’s hard to imagine something like that feeling normal. Every time Ray brought his husband to an Outdoor School function, he found it almost hard to look at them. Because if he did, he’d probably start staring. 

He watches David lean forward, his free hand squeezing the back of Rachel’s seat. David clears his throat. “I take it you don’t see it that often? In a small town?” His voice is soft and free of judgement. Patrick feels himself nod. Of course David seeing a lesbian couple in the grocery store would be no big deal. He’s probably seen them hundreds of times whenever he’s staying at his parents’ place in Manhattan. (That is, of course, if David even  _ goes _ to the grocery store.) A tiny pinprick of jealousy burns in Patrick’s stomach, wondering how it feels when something so groundbreaking to him can be viewed as mundane and ordinary. _ Normal.  _

In fact, the entire car is silent. Rachel’s eyes have to remain on the road, but Twyla turns around in her seat. “No, not really,” she shrugs.

Rachel drops Stevie off at her aunt’s motel, then Twyla at the cafe. Sometimes they all study there together, but today Rachel has to help take Parker to a physical therapy appointment. 

She kisses Twyla goodbye, then turns around in her seat. Patrick hasn’t bothered moving, even though the middle seat is not the most comfortable position to be in. He prefers it when he and David can be pressed into each other’s sides.

“Rosewood or the treehouse?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

David rolls his eyes at the name of his family’s country house. The first time he mentioned it to Patrick, it made him grin so wide David threatened he’d never be allowed in. 

“Rosewood,” Patrick says with confidence. It’s too cold to be back in the treehouse just yet, and the idea of having David in his bedroom makes him all kinds of nervous. He watches David out of the corner of his eye, pressing his lips together and nodding in agreement. 

Rachel starts the car up again. He quickly pulls his phone out of his pocket, and David lets go of his hand so he can text with both thumbs.

_ Rachel and I are going to study at David’s _ he sends to his family group chat. 

He watches the three dots dance for a moment, while he feels the gentle aimless tracing of David’s fingers on his thigh. His belly flips at the touch, then a message from his mom pops up.

_ Sounds good honey. Should I bring David some extra lasagna when I pick you up? _

He turns to David, who is looking out the window and watching the trees go by. Though he  _ claims  _ to be a city kid at heart, Patrick has learned that David loves to stare into the depths of the outdoors. It’s a place that never asks anything of him, where he can simply zone out. (Patrick remembers asking him once if the white noise of the city was a better distraction- and to that David claims it’s overstimulating and a cesspool of germs.) He squeezes David’s knee, trying to pull him out of his thoughts.

“My mom wants to know if she can give you extra lasagna.” Patrick tries to hide his knowing smile.

David’s eyes light up. “Of course!” His mouth draws into a bit of a pout, which is absolutely adorable. “She’s too kind.” David brings a sweater-covered hand up to hide his face, almost as if he can’t bear to have his emotions on display. All it does is make Patrick want to kiss him.

“You guys are gross.” Rachel grimaces from the front seat. 

That just makes Patrick want to kiss David more, out of spite. (So he does.)

As they pull up into the stretch of private road, Patrick glances back to his text messages. There’s no way his parents would let him do this (on a school night, no less), if they truly knew what David was to him. Patrick felt like he’d had  _ that _ conversation play out dozens of times in his head, each with a different ending. He has it  _ good _ with his mom and dad. It wasn’t like the anecdotes he’d heard about Johnny and Moira Rose or the fights Rachel recounted with her mother. He couldn’t screw things up. Not when he had it so good with David—and who knew for how long. He wanted to keep everything  _ good, _ keep everything the way it was, even if only for an indeterminate amount of time. 

They wave goodbye to Rachel as she turns the car around, and then David bounds up the steps two at a time. “Keep up, Brewer,” he teases, not looking behind him as he unlocks the door. Patrick chuckles, happy to take his time. They slough their backpacks onto the floor, stomp the slush off their boots, and throw their coats over the banister, another act that has become a ritual over the past few months. Then David is wrapping his fuzzy sweater arms around Patrick’s shoulders, and Patrick crowds their bodies towards the solid wall of the hallway. (Thankfully, David does not accidentally bang his head into a Thom Thompson painting today.) 

Perhaps half a second passes between them before one of them surges forward and the other meets him halfway. (Patrick’s not sure who at this point; he only knows that it’s like the pull of a magnet.) The feeling of David’s lips on his makes his brain go white and turns his legs and stomach into jelly. Any thoughts he was having about his parents is now far gone.

He presses his whole body into David, as if it were possible to push them further and further into the wall. Patrick  _ wants _ this, and he wants to keep doing it as long as David will have him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading y'all :) we're inching closer to Crossing Frozen Territory so... if you know, you know (grab a comfy blanket)


	5. Our Trunks will be Solid and Strong (Rachel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title once again comes from Kimya Dawson, Rachel's favourite artist in this universe.

It started off as a sunny, sunny morning, but now there are dark clouds beginning to roll in; a heavy day in June, though the start of summer should be brimming with possibility. Rachel sits behind the wheel, having shut off the engine at least a few minutes ago. She glances down at her phone. 

Patrick had sent her a simple _ David’s going home  _ around ten p.m. the night before and hasn’t replied to any of her texts since. It’s a Saturday, and she knows for a fact that he doesn’t have baseball until tomorrow. There’s only one place Patrick Brewer will be right now. 

She climbs out of her car and walks up the short drive. If she still lived next door, she would’ve just scaled the back yard fence, but now that there’s more history and space between them, ringing the doorbell seems like a more respectful option.

“Rachel!” Marcy swings open the door just as she finishes climbing the last step. She looks sullen, but nevertheless happy to see her son’s best friend. Before Rachel can squeak out so much as a hello, Marcy has her wrapped up in one of her warm hugs. She smells like that chamomile hand cream Rachel helped Patrick pick out two Christmases ago, which only makes her heart dip a little bit.

“Come in, come in,” Marcy ushers her into the house and towards the kitchen. As if on auto pilot, she turns on the kettle and pulls a loaf of bread out of the box on the counter.  _ Marcy’s bread.  _ Rachel can’t remember the last time she had Marcy’s bread: a dense and crusty whole wheat loaf with walnuts and sunflower seeds. (She’s also missed her buttermilk tea biscuits.) Rachel feels her stomach growl.

Rachel slowly (and perhaps a little awkwardly) takes a seat at one of the kitchen stools, the same stools she and Patrick used to sit at to help Marcy make strawberry jam. “How—” her voice feels shaky and uncertain, so she clears her throat and tries again. “How’s Patrick?” she asks, crossing her fingers that Marcy won’t need any additional clues.

Marcy pauses and looks up from the bread she’s slicing. She has a sad look in her eyes. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry,” she puts her knife down and touches Rachel’s arm. Rachel waits, trying to figure out just how much she knows. Marcy takes a deep breath and continues slicing bread. “Patrick told us everything last night,” she confesses, looking up from her work with a shy smile.

“What?” Rachel feels herself go still, then an instant need to run out to the backyard. “Everything?” she asks tentatively as Marcy starts to open the fridge, no doubt in search of the all-natural peanut butter.

Marcy hums, assembling peanut butter, her homemade jam, and those damn mini marshmallows on the counter. “We had them both over for a bonfire to celebrate the end of school,” she explains while making two sandwiches, “Then…maybe one of us said something? I don’t know, I can’t remember. It all happened so fast. We found him in his room later that night and—” Marcy pauses her work, lips pursed. “Honey, you have to know that we love both of you. I never expect you to tell me anything that feels too private or personal, but the fact that Patrick felt he couldn’t talk to us—” her voice trails off, searching for the right words. Just then, there’s a click from the electric kettle, the water having come to a boil. 

Rachel reaches across the counter for it and slides the tea box over, happy for a distraction. Marcy places three mugs in front of them, and they silently prepare the teas in tandem; lemon ginger with nothing in it for her, and two earl greys with milk and raw sugar for Marcy and Patrick. There’s nothing but the hum of the fridge and the gentle clinking of metal spoons on ceramic mugs. 

“He wanted to tell you,” Rachel breaks their comfortable silence, “but I’m not sure if he knew how.”

Marcy surprises her with a sad laugh. “That’s Patrick,” she sighs, “thinking too much and keeping everything in.” She takes a sip of her tea, gesturing to the mugs and sandwiches between the two of them. “I trust you know where to find him?” Marcy raises her eyebrows knowingly.

Of course she does. Rachel lets Marcy open and close the screen door for her while she juggles the teas and sandwiches. She makes her way across the sprawling backyard to the maple tree amidst the faint sound of rolling thunder. Thankfully, the pulley system Clint helped them build when they were twelve still works. She puts Patrick’s tea and his peanut butter & marshmallow monstrosity on the tray. (Rachel is a multitasker—of course she can climb one-handed with her lemon ginger in the other.)

“Go away,” calls a raspy, defeated voice from the top of the treehouse.

“It’s me, you idiot,” she calls back to him from halfway up the plank ladder.

The treehouse is, of course, in impeccable shape. Clint and Marcy built it for Patrick and Rachel to grow into, though the ceiling is a little too low for them now. There are mushroom and bug identification charts tacked to the walls, as well as many torn out sketchbook pages from their art class with Ray. The old red milk crate is turned upside down, and it still has some of Rachel’s old novels and Patrick’s grandmother’s binoculars on top. The solar lamp hangs from the window sill, and next to it hangs a photograph in a frame made of twigs: her, Patrick, Twyla, Stevie, and David huddled up together under the entrance to Schitt’s Creek, smiling and laughing in freshly fallen snow.  _ Their last day. _ It’s the only piece of evidence that David was ever there, but Rachel knows he exists in every crevice of this tiny sanctuary.

And there’s Patrick, lying on top of his camping thermarest, hands behind his head as he stares aimlessly up at the ceiling. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she goes to the window and tugs on the pulley. It squeaks as the plank with their lunch slowly rises to the window ledge.

She nudges his side with her Keds, sinking down to sit cross-legged and present him with food. (When was the last time he ate something?)

“I can’t believe you still like this abomination,” she scrunches her nose at the uncommon combination, to which Patrick rolls his eyes and shuffles up in a seated position, back resting against the wall.

“I fucked up,” Patrick says, unable to meet her gaze. He takes his peanut butter and marshmallow from her and tears into one of the corners. 

Rachel just slurps her tea loudly, eyebrows raised as she tries to get him to look at her. (Patrick does, and he’s unimpressed.)

“They asked—during the bonfire last night—when you and I were getting back together,” which Rachel has to make a face at. (The correct answer is _never._ ) “He made some kind of excuse to leave, and luckily I was fast enough to get in his car and try and explain on the way back to the country house.” 

Rachel lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Shit,” she bites into her sandwich, not bothering to wait and ask him, “Then what happened?” with a mouthful of peanut butter and strawberry jam.

Patrick’s voice wavers as he retells the events from the night before; David’s absolute silence on the drive over, both of them taking the steps two at a time, sitting on David’s bed and watching him delicately fold sweater after sweater, telling Patrick how much this has messed things up for him. A simple text sent to his parents to tell them he’d changed his mind and would be flying back to New York for the summer (because unbeknownst to anyone in their friend group, David had already told them he wanted to stay in Ontario). The uber Patrick took home that he sat and waited on the front porch for. The state his parents found him in late into the evening, lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. The months and years’ worth of secrets that he had poured out to them, blanketed by warm Brewer hugs and forehead kisses and whispered  _ we love you' _ s. 

Rachel has to stop him a couple times to tip his mug of earl grey in the direction of his mouth, encouraging Patrick to take his time. It’s a lot to process. As much as this is all an open wound for Patrick, Rachel is slowly coming to the realization that she’s also just lost a  _ good _ friend. 

She watches Patrick rest his head on the treehouse wall. He cranes his neck to stare at the ceiling once more. Perhaps he has no tears left to cry today, but he’s still a right mess. “Hey,” she whispers, scooting over so she can sit right next to him. She sets her half-finished tea on the milk crate and wordlessly wraps her arms around Patrick. She feels him relax into her touch, leaning his head onto hers.

They sit like that for a while, holding each other and saying nothing. Then, after what could be either a minute or an hour, the gentle patter of rain can be heard from the roof of the treehouse. (Thankfully, there’s a tarp on top held down by bricks.) It comes slowly, then all at once. The two of them will remain safe and dry so long as they stay inside. Maybe Marcy will come out in a moment with rain jackets, but for now, they can wait for the storm to pass. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [fishyspots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishyspots/pseuds/fishyspots) and her brilliant [With a Twist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26379061/chapters/64253455) for letting me carry on Patrick's love of marshmallow peanut butter sandwiches in this universe, and to [fitz](https://leopxld-fitz.tumblr.com/) for their baking expertise.


	6. With the Least of Worries (Patrick)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from What a Place to Rest by Samson Wrote
> 
> Hopefully this is a little less sad than the last chapter. If you still haven't recovered, let me know!

Patrick unlocks his bike and wheels it out the equipment shed. It had been a long week at camp, and he’s now ready to head back into town for a weekend without having to be around children. He takes his time biking through Schitt’s Creek. His parents aren’t expecting him home for at least another hour, and in summer they’re very lax about curfews. 

He breathes in the freshly mowed grass in the late August afternoon, waving at some of the residents out on their lawns. (Most of them walk their dogs through the outdoor school property, so the students are all familiar faces—especially when Roland likes them enough to hire them on as counsellors for summer camp season.)

“Patrick!” he hears a familiar voice call out to him. 

Ray is in his front garden, clad in floral pink gloves. He waves with both hands, one of which is holding a small gardening spade. Patrick has known that Ray lives in Schitt’s Creek for a while because he would sometimes pop home in the afternoon to make sure his house plants were in optimal sunlight. (That is, when he wasn’t convening with the other teachers during lunch hour.) (Or trying to help Patrick with the whole reading thing.)

He stops his bike in front of Ray’s driveway and puts his feet down on the pavement. 

“Hi Ray,” Patrick smiles, “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Patrick!” Ray is excited as ever, as if he hadn’t run into his family at the farmers market last weekend. “I had a meeting with Roland today, and he said you’re having a lot of fun working at the camp!” Of course. The outdoor school staff were probably already in prep mode for their fall intake. Ray gets up from his work, dusting off his pants and removing his gardening gloves. “You’re not biking all the way back to Elmdale, are you? I have to say, I never took you for the  _ Tour de France _ type.”

“It’s not that bad,” Patrick chuckles. (It really isn’t.) Patrick always takes the back roads through the forests. He invited Ken on a tour through the trails once last fall. It didn’t feel the same as it did when he went with the rest of his friends, so now he mostly takes to the bike paths alone. It’s quiet when Patrick is by himself, and he’s come to prefer it that way. It gives him the space to think.

“Oh well you must come inside. Charles was just making lemonade and I cannot send you back into this heat until you’ve had some,” Ray decides for him.

Patrick opens his mouth to protest, but Ray is already gesturing to take his bike. He parks it safely in the garage before leading Patrick inside. Patrick figures since he’s not  _ currently _ Ray’s student (he won’t be until winter semester) (which he’s already started a countdown for), that this is an okay thing to do. But he should at least text his parents to tell them.

“Honey!” Ray calls into the main floor of the house. Patrick has only met Ray’s husband on a few occasions: bringing lunch to the class before canoe trip, the graduation ceremony… he even remembers having batches of homemade cookies delivered during exams. 

Ray turns back to Patrick. “Go make yourself comfortable,” he gestures towards the living room. “I’ll call your mother.”

Patrick just nods and steps tentatively into Ray’s home. The living room looks like any other living room would. Leather couches, a vase full of wildflowers, a neat stack of coasters for a closet organizing business? And of course there’s a record player with Carole King’s  _ Time Gone By _ lying dormant. But Patrick surprises himself as he bypasses the shelves of records. Instead, his attention is drawn to the photos on the wall.

There’s a stained wooden frame with  _ #1 Teachers  _ burnt into it, a picture of Ronnie, Roland, and Ray under the archway leading into outdoor school. It has signatures all around the outside of it from a former class. (Not his.) 

Then there’s a picture that looks like it’s from a wedding: Ray and Charles (that was his name, right?) standing in tuxes, arms wrapped around each other.

In the third photo, the same two men wear rainbow leis, standing and smiling in front of a building that says “Stonewall Inn,” covered in rainbow flags. Was this…  _ Pride _ ? 

He leans towards the last photo, silently asking it to share its secrets, while he listens to Ray chat animatedly from the kitchen.

“Oh, hi Marcy! Yes I was just calling about—yes, it’s good to hear from you too! Yes, it really is a lovely day. My hostas are looking just—oh you do? I would love to see a picture!” There’s a pause. Every time his mom and Ray talk, he’s reminded of how well they got on during parent-teacher night. Ray’s chatter picks up again, “No, I haven’t seen that program! My husband tells me it’s quite a marvel—yes, not to worry, I won’t keep him for very long.” Patrick looks back into the kitchen. Ray smiles at Patrick, nodding his head along to whatever his mother is saying. “Uh huh... Uh huh... Okay.”

Then, the other man from the living room photos materializes from the opposite end of the house. Charles is wearing an industrial apron and large work gloves that make it seem like he plays with fire, but his smile is even softer than Ray’s.

“You must be Patrick,” Charles takes off his glove to offer a handshake. Patrick goes to reach for his hand, but something in his brain freezes.  _ What exactly has Ray told him?  _ Either Charles must not notice what Rachel calls Patrick’s “buffering” face, or he simply takes it in stride. 

“The boy who portaged a canoe by himself for a whole mile. Is that right?” 

The tension from Patrick’s shoulders dissolves. He’s not carrying that heavy, sagging rock in his chest anymore, but there’s still some part of his defence mechanism he hasn’t been able to shake off. 

He smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Charles nods towards the kitchen where Ray is  _ still _ talking animatedly on the phone. “Take a load off,” Charles gestures to the chairs at the dining room table, “My apologies for not coming in sooner. I was in my studio out back.” He must see the confusion on Patrick’s face. “Glass blowing,” Charles supplies, pointing to the large windows at the end of the dining room table, where a translucent wilting orchid sits within a terrarium. 

“That's beautiful,” Patrick says as his eyes scan the rest of the dining room. There’s a canvas banner with painted hands in a bowl that says  _ Eat _ , and a painting of what looks like dancing stick figures. Patrick doesn’t know what he expected, but it seems as though the entire house is taken up by art. It is in no way a surprise. 

“Did you make those, too?” He asks as he takes a seat at the table. 

Charles laughs and reaches into the fridge. “Oh no, I’m a disaster when it comes to the paintbrush.”

“So am I.” Patrick smiles back. “Just ask Ray.”

That only makes Charles laugh more. He grabs glasses for them from the cupboard and explains that the cloth one came from a place called Bread & Puppet, and the other one is a Keith Haring. 

Patrick takes a glass of lemonade from Charles (did he make the glass?), eyes still trailing towards the Keith Haring. It looks familiar, but he can’t seem to figure out why. He opens his mouth to ask who this artist is, but he’s stopped by Ray who has  _ finally  _ hung up. 

“Patrick!” Ray pockets his phone, “You’re staying with us for dinner! Your mom says she’ll pick you up later. I hope you like grilled halloumi!” Ray’s fingers steeple, brimming with anticipation.

Charles passes Ray his lemonade. “Thank you, honey.” Ray smiles and kisses his cheek. It’s not Ray’s usual, perky smile. It’s a much subtler, loving one. Patrick looks down at his glass and feels himself blush. Was that the first time he saw two men… kissing? In real life?  _ Huh. _ It was just a peck on the cheek. Why does he feel like his insides are expanding? 

“Need any help with dinner?” he suggests, trying to distract himself.

Patrick joins the two older men at the kitchen counter, helping to chop and season vegetables and this mysterious halloumi (which he learns is just a yummy, dense cheese). He tries to focus on the work in front of him, but he’s overcome with this odd sensation of feeling at home. It’s odd, because  _ home _ home is perfectly safe and welcoming, and his parents are both loving people. But somehow this is different. Like he’s looking into a crystal ball, watching something he could someday  _ have _ . It’s a frighteningly simple ordeal. It’s only dinner. And yet, it’s so much more than that.

Charles heads outside with their skewers to get the barbecue going, while Ray wipes down the counter. “You know, when David was here for school, we hosted him over Thanksgiving,” Ray casually mentions, not looking up from his work. 

Patrick feels his breath catch. He hasn’t heard that name in almost a year. He’s tried his best to (unsuccessfully) forget. (At least he  _ tried _ to have something with Ken.)

“Really?” he feels his voice shake.

Ray takes it in stride. He’s  _ certain  _ Ray knew they were together in some capacity. But surprisingly, he doesn’t push any further. “Sure did,” Ray’s eyes twinkle as he starts setting the dining room table. “I get emails from him every now and again with updates on his portfolio. He was actually kind enough to gift me this painting when your class graduated,” Ray looks back at the Keith Haring. Oh. Oh  _ fuck _ . Of course.

He must notice Patrick’s having a fraction of a crisis, because Ray chooses to change the subject. “Speaking of,” his eyebrows bounce up and down. “Are you excited for senior year at Schitt’s Creek? I promise, winter trip is going to be  _ so _ much fun.” Ray claps with each of his last three words to emphasize his point. 

Patrick nods enthusiastically, using the distraction to dive into his excitement of snowshoeing and learning how to make maple syrup and having overnight solos in the woods. Eventually, Charles comes in with dinner and the conversation transitions to Patrick’s role in the fall musical. (Apparently  _ Seussical _ is going to be heavy on the footwork.) The three of them talk about everything and nothing as the sun goes down. This isn’t at all what Patrick had expected; he’s learning that  _ normal _ can also be synonymous with  _ joy _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to imagine whoever you like as Charles... I like to think of him being similar to Jay from The Great Canadian Baking Show s3. I think I've figured out how I'm wrapping up the series, but if there's anything you would like to see please tell me! :) I'm constantly touched that people want to keep hanging out in this world with me.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading <3


	7. Til I'm Home Again (Ronnie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Home Again by Carole King, because Ray made me do it. 
> 
> Ronnie's wife is inspired by [another_Hero's brilliant series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765873) about the florist she KNOWS.

It happens on a Sunday. It’s one of Ronnie’s last days off during Christmas holiday, and she damn well earned a lazy morning to sleep in. Unfortunately for her, she’s startled awake by a telltale ringtone. 

_ You've got to get up every morning _

_ With a smile in your face _

_ And show the world all the love in your heart _

Absolutely fucking not.

She answers it anyway, pulling herself up in bed. “What do you want, Ray?” 

Dulce groans beneath the covers, curling into Ronnie’s side. 

“Goooood morning!” Ray singsongs.

“No!” Dulce mumbles, nose pressing into Ronnie’s hip. She let her assistant open her shop today for good reason.

Ronnie absentmindedly runs a hand over her wife’s back. She looks at the time on her phone. “Raymond, what did I tell you about calls before 7 a.m.”

“So sorry, I set all my clocks five minutes ahead as a precautionary measure. But I felt like this couldn’t wait. Have you seen the news?”

Ronnie fumbles around the bedside table, looking for the tv remote in the dark. (Damn winter mornings with blackout curtains.) “Not yet. Why, did another Cuppy the Kitten get stepped on?”

“No no no, much worse,” Ray cautions as Ronnie turns the television on, making sure the brightness is as low as humanly possible. She flicks through each station, her under caffeinated brain somehow forgetting what channel number CBC news belongs to.

And then, all of the sudden, it’s there. A street shot of a Central Park-adjacent Manhattan penthouse. In large block letters against a white background, the lower third reads:  _ Interflix Tax Scandal,  _ then _ Business Manager Runs Away with Rose Family Fortune. _

“Oh shit,” Ronnie whispers, pulling herself out of bed. She leaves her poor wife confused and half awake, grumbling her way up into a seated position. If Ronnie is out of bed on her day off, it’s serious business. 

She shuffles to the window and pulls back the curtains, staring out into the fluffy falling snow and navy blue sky, glowing in the amber of the street lamp. It’s too fucking early, but she can go back to bed after damage control.

“Do we know anything about his family — where they’re going, if there’s anything they need right now?” She hears the bedroom door creak open from behind her. Without a doubt, Dulce is headed downstairs to put the coffee on. 

“I just got off the phone with Roland, and he says their country house property was inherited by Mrs. Rose. There’s a slight chance they could be headed for the Canadian border, but the news hasn’t disclosed anything.”

Ronnie nods, trying to reach her mental list of the incoming senior students. Her sustainability & business section is full, but Ray definitely has wiggle room in art & English lit. (Which for the best, because David will no doubt want to be placed there.) They didn’t have as many kids apply for scholarships this year, so they can certainly find a line item in the budget to support his outdoor activity fees. She recounts all this to Ray, accompanied by the faint sound of his keyboard clicking — he is probably making edits in their staff google doc, emailing the school board superintendent, or both. 

At some point, Dulce brings Ronnie her coffee and silk robe. She helps her put it on so she can keep her phone pressed to her ear and the television in her periphery. This is of course  _ if _ David is coming back to live in his family’s country house, and only if he  _ wants  _ to come back to Schitt’s Creek Outdoor School. But this is something they’d do for any one of their kids. Being a teacher sometimes also means being a mother bear. 

Volunteering herself, she fires off an email to David. Ray has it on good authority that it still works — David had emailed him at the beginning of the school year to mention the performance art intensive with Janet Kemflugan. She doesn’t bother putting in a subject line, she only needs to throw a lifesaver out to sea.

_ Just read the news. You’re welcome back at outdoor school, no ppk necessary. _

They have a week of prep before the students arrive, so there’s some leeway for David to adjust and get settled before he has to start classes again. Even so, he started a week late the first time around and still came out as one of the top students in the class. (Right next to Boy Scout Brewer.)

“Done,” she announces to Ray and sits down at the edge of the bed, taking a long pull of her coffee. This is by no means a regular Sunday. “Do you think he even wants to come back?” she asks, finally disclosing her fear. Though they had a great student-teacher relationship, David was always more forthcoming with Ray due to their common love of art and books. She likes David fine, but she can’t get on the same level with him that Ray can.

There’s an uncharacteristic silence on the other end of the line, followed by, “I’m not too sure.” Ray seems to be thinking out loud. “The school he transferred to was without a doubt high calibre, but I feel like something _ clicked  _ when he was with us.” Ronnie hums in agreement. Ray is right. David Rose is capable of so much more than people assume at first glance. As if on cue, her brain decides to recall David and Twyla in the chicken coop, how she watched them from the office window as Twyla passed him one of the chickens to hold. (He only lasted about three seconds, but he still held the damn bird.) 

“Such a shame about him and Patrick though,” Ray shakes her from the memory.

“Huh?”

“You don’t remember?” Ray gasps, “Oh I have it on good authority he’s still hung up on him.”

Ronnie rolls her eyes. “Is that right?” But before Ray can disclose any new gossip, her phone chimes with an email notification. The situation  _ must  _ be serious if she’s getting a response this early in the morning. She knows David well enough to be familiar with his cycles of anxiousness and lack of sleep.

_ we’re just driving through the canadian border. will see you next monday.  _

_ and thank you. _

_ -D _

Fuck yes. They’ve got him. “Looks like this semester is going to be pretty interesting,” Ronnie smirks.

Another gasp is heard from Ray. “He said yes?! Oh, this is just fantastic!”

Ronnie shakes her head and laughs with relief, sending well wishes to him and Charles on their Saturday sojourn to Rattlesnake Point before hanging up. When she turns around, Dulce is smiling, eyebrows raised incredulously. 

“What? I just want what’s best for my students.” 

Her wife laughs, then suggests they might as well make breakfast now that they’re both up. The house slowly comes to life as the sun rises through the trees, and the kitchen fills with the warm aroma of fresh eggs, bacon, and another pot of coffee. It’s an easy, gentle morning before she’s once again bombarded with lesson planning and navigating hormonal teens, but there’s satisfaction in knowing she just gave one of them a soft place to land. In truth, she can’t wait for classes to start again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaannndddd onto Crossing Frozen Territory!
> 
> Seriously, thank you so much for hanging out in this weird little world with me. Once again, I'll be "taking a break" from outdoor school to focus on a new AU (hello Frozen Over Fest 2020!), but parts 4 and 5 are more or less blocked out. If there's anything else you want to see in this world, please ask- I'm happy to grant wish fulfillment! Maybe one day the playlist will be ready to share, but for now, evermore thanks to all of you. 💕

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr [@kindofspecifstore](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kindofspecificstore)


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